Southern Hospitality
by malamanteau
Summary: Sherlock and John's newest case takes them to an... unexpected... locale.  Complete culture shock ensues.  There are, of course, dastardly criminals involved, and the beginning is a bit dark, but this story is primarily for the sheer lulz.


**A/N: First ever fanfic right here. Hope it isn't too terribly sucky, or OOC, or... something. Un-beta'd, un-britpicked, so if it's horrid it's completely my fault. Constructive criticism is welcome if you just can't stand the sheer awfulness without saying something.**

**(okay, I really don't think it's that bad, but better safe than sorry...)**

**Happy reading!**

Southern Hospitality

John stared at the screen of his laptop and sighed.

Two weeks. It had been two weeks since their last case. Not that John minded - despite the thrill he got from jumping over rooftops and running through dark alleyways with his flatmate, he appreciated downtime as much as anyone else. Any normal person, that is.

He was worried about Sherlock, though, and more than a little exasperated. The consulting detective was notoriously restless when he didn't have murders to solve or criminal masterminds to catch, and for the past week had been pacing the flat like an inordinately tall, caged panther. Well, sometimes. When he wasn't brooding in silence, he was torturing his violin until 3 a.m. (John had switched from tea to coffee before work lately), nearly blowing up the kitchen (the task of cleaning up his failed experiments had, of course, fallen to John), or else nowhere to be found, disappearing from the flat for hours on end; lately, these disappearances had become more and more frequent. He had returned one night with a fast-darkening black eye and a busted lip; John had been concerned and, to be honest, angry. Angry at Sherlock, for getting himself into a fight, but also angry at himself. He should have seen it coming, should have kept an eye on the man; he knew what Sherlock was like.

"You're doing this on purpose, aren't you," he had said darkly, mopping up the blood on Sherlock's chin. The detective had batted his hand away, eyes narrowing.

"If you are implying that I deliberately attained these injuries, I'm afraid you're sorely mistaken."

"Am I?" John had retorted. "You're bored, Sherlock, you've been telling me you're bored for the past week and a half. How am I supposed to know this-" he had gestured to the other man's general state of disarray; they both knew he wasn't just referring to the events of tonight- "isn't your way of alleviating it?"

The corner of Sherlock's lip had curled. "Believe me, it isn't."

John had fallen silent, then, wondering how exactly to interpret that statement. In the lengthy and uncomfortable quiet that followed, Sherlock had swept from the flat once again, in a whirl of long legs and blue scarf and without a word. Setting the bloody cloth down with a sigh, John had gazed, disquieted, at the door, hoping that he wouldn't have to treat any worse injuries - or anything else - when his flatmate finally deigned to once again grace 221B Baker Street with his presence.

Fortunately, there hadn't been anything else, but Sherlock's behavior was still bothering John more than he cared to admit. Normally, the man complained endlessly when he had nothing to do. Now, there was only the silence, the midnight shrieking of the violin, the lengthy disappearances, and the dark look in those silver-blue eyes whenever Sherlock returned (which wasn't often). John couldn't help but wonder what line had been crossed in that brilliant brain of his, and whether there was another one waiting to be stepped over should nothing come up from Scotland Yard in the next few days. It definitely wasn't something he wanted to think about.

He shut his laptop a little harder than was necessary. The entire situation was just - it was frustrating. He couldn't last much longer if Sherlock kept up his disturbing behavior, and Sherlock wouldn't stop unless there was a case... which there wasn't. John buried his head in his hands.

The door to the flat slammed open and John glanced up, startled. Sherlock was standing there, looking as though he had just run across half of London, a gleam of triumph in his eyes.

"We have a case."

John sighed in relief. _Thank__God._

"Pack your bags," Sherlock continued.

John's blissful train of thought stopped abruptly. "I'm sorry?"

"We have a case," the detective repeated, impatiently, disappearing into his room for a minute and returning with an armful of... something vaguely phosphorescent, which he promptly stuffed into a large duffel. When the duffel started moving, John pointedly looked the other way. "Pack your bags."

"No, no, I heard what you said, I just... why am I packing?"

Sherlock huffed, exasperated. "The case," he said slowly, as though talking to a particularly dull child, "requires us to pack."

"So it's not something around here, then."

"Actually, it's right down the street, just a short stroll. For God's sake, John, please try to use your intelligence, what little you possess. Of course it's not here. Now pack." Sherlock once again vanished into his room, muttering something under his breath about "common idiots."

John, shooting one last uncomfortable glance at the duffel, tried not to feel affronted as he climbed the stairs to his room. Sherlock was acting like Sherlock again, after all, and John would take insults over stony silences any day. He stared into his closet for a minute, puzzling over what to bring, before realizing he had no clue what sort of climate he was packing for.

"Um, Sherlock," he said tentatively, craning his neck to look downstairs, "where exactly are we going?"

Sherlock appeared at the bottom of the staircase, carrying a worryingly tall stack of books. "To use a common expression: 'across the pond.' Now hurry; the plane leaves in an hour and a half."

John paused, trying to process the information. Sherlock had found them a case in America, of all places? That was... unusual, and made it highly unlikely that Scotland Yard was involved. And the case had to be pretty complex, else Sherlock wouldn't have asked John to pack. Slowly, John began to get a better idea of what all the late-night disappearances might have been about.

"Yes, well, care to elaborate?" he called down the stairs after a moment's pause, hoping for more details. "So I know what to bring?" _Especially__since__I__have__less__than__an__hour__to__get__ready...__damn__it._

"North Carolina!" Sherlock replied, voice muffled. There was a loud thunk, a sound of breaking glass, and a sharp exclamation from the general direction of the kitchen.

North Carolina. North Carolina? John was confronted by mental images of twanging banjos and deep-fried butter, and winced.

He hurried down the stairs to help clean up Sherlock's mess, wondering what on earth he had gotten himself into this time.

**A/N: Before anyone asks: I'm from the American South, and I'm using the blatant stereotypes to make a point, eventually. Trust me. It's not just Southern-people-bashing. (I hope.)**

**Reviews are fine by me, but not essential to my continued existence, so it's up to you. Hope you liked it at least a bit, though :)**


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